


Home

by serein



Series: The Ella Eyre Stories - Broken Hearts and Broken Words [3]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bayern München, Big White Room, Breakups, Continuation, Ella Eyre, Football | Soccer, Freedom, Home, Hurt/Comfort, I suck at dialogue and everything else, Inspired by Music, Jealousy, Jessie J - Freeform, M/M, Schweinski, Sequel, Story within a Story, Suicide Attempt, Uncertainty, mentioned Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>{in which a little dinner changes everything}</p><p>-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tempered_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/gifts).



> The third part to the Ella Eyre fics ([We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2234289), [Comeback](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2240610)). Set to [Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mASGCn80lXk), among other songs (Schweinski's bit is coordinated to [Big White Room](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAaos80oPqg) by the one and only Jessie J).
> 
> Reformatted in multi-chapter style for easier readability.
> 
> Dedicated to Sarah (tempered_rose), because of her generous friendship and attention over the last couple of months. Why she continues to put up with me, I'm not sure.
> 
> I'll be sure to group the three Eyre fics into a series, soon, don't you worry. Navigation continues to be important, and I'll try to maximize it the best I can.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this work.

* * *

_Yeah I'm cool, everything seems to be fine_  
_On the surface I look good, but I don't feel the same inside_  
_Something's wrong, and I know you can tell_  
_But I never have to say, because you know me too well_  
-Ella Eyre, Home

Dinner at six is one or all of three things: cliché, crowded or romantic.

In Bastian and Manuel's case, it was the second: the restaurant was so crowded that they were added to a two-hour waiting list by a snooty concierge once they entered the ostentatious lobby, decorated with the snarling wooden faces of lions and filled with the snarling faces, of, well, impatient customers. Even though, as Bastian reasons, they made a reservation _at least_ twenty days ago.

"Everyone else had a reservation too, and we simply don't have enough tables. We will come find you when we are ready."

"But-

"Next customer, please!"

Manuel shakes his head and gives the concierge a tight-lipped smile before grabbing Bastian's forearm and pulling him away, weaving though the impatient crowd in the lobby waiting for a seat. Bastian, impervious to most apathetic gestures, seemed to take no offence to the concierge's foul attitude, and let himself be pulled by the strong blond.

"Manu, where are we going?"

"Out!"

"But you're going out with Benedikt, and me with Lukas."

The blond stops pulling to look back at Bastian, and the latter's face already begins to split with the signature grin.

"God, you're stupid. C'mon, let's go to the quiet little restaurant across the river."

"A-are you sure? We've wanted to go to this restaurant forever!"

"And for what? Snooty waitresses and uptight rich folk who look like they have a poker up their ass?"

Bastian looks scandalized, and surprised at Manuel's spontaneity.

"In all my years of being your friend, I never, ever imagined that you, Manuel Neuer, would say something like 'have a poker up their ass'. Well, let's do it then, Mr. Audacity!"

Laughing slightly, Manuel grabs Bastian's hand, and they scurry through the revolving door like little kids anxious for sweets.

Outside, the cold blasts them straight in the face, frosty and hostile. The wind scatters a lonely stack of papers in a flurry of white and grey and pushes abandoned empty bottles of soft drink and alcohol across the cobblestone, clattering as they roll.

Bastian lets go of Manuel's hand and pulls his pea coat tighter around his body in a vain attempt to preserve his own body heat. Manuel's wearing little more than just a neon green sweatshirt and jeans. Almost immediately, he starts shivering like mad, teeth chattering violently. Bastian's eyes soften, and he undoes his slate grey scarf, tugging it around his neck delicately. The cold air meets his neck automatically, but Bastian doesn't mind. Tying the scarf around Manuel's neck, he pats it twice as if wishing it good luck and smiles at a grateful Manuel.

"But this is yours?"

"It's yours now. I have thirty."

"But-

"Manuel, don't argue with me. C'mon, let's cross the bridge."

The water is black but calm amidst the violent wind. Golden specks of orange and yellow from the light of archaic streetlamps dance upon the surface, dotting the river like glitter. Manuel's lips are already showing signs of cheilitis, but he prattles on, telling Bastian about, well, just about everything about Benedikt. How Benedikt likes his coffee; what time Benedikt's cranky in the afternoon; what kind of pasta Benedikt likes.

Bastian just smiles and listens like he always does, patient with Manuel. It's only when the two have crossed the half-mile long bridge and are in front of the red fluorescent letters that decorate the façade that Bastian opens his mouth to speak.

"We're here, Manu."

"Benedikt hates wh-oh. Shall we go in?"

"I don't know, should we? Maybe we should just shiver out here."

Manuel pouts, face contorting to almost duck-like. Bastian just laughs.

"C'mon, Manu."

He pulls the heavy glass door open, and a beaming waitress grabs two menus the second she sees them.

The restaurant is the complete antithesis of the one across the street.

Warm, snug, and, well, absolutely empty, save the staff and now the two of them.

"Welcome."

"Thank you."

"Just the two of you, I assume?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Okay! This way, please..."

Manuel subconsciously lets his hand drift to Bastian's, intertwining their fingers when they meet. Bastian doesn't say anything, and starts pulling Manuel towards a cushioned booth.

The waitress smiles, and sets the leather-bound menus down on the table.

"Let me know when you're ready."

The two smile and thank the waitress. Sliding into the booth, their hands don't separate.

They order quickly; Bastian asks for some kind of steak and Manuel wants some obscure salad.

Later, Bastian's the first one to let go, and Manuel swallows anxiously, jerking his hand back into his lap.

That's when Bastian knows that something's wrong.

There's something wrong with Manuel, his Manuel.

Manuel, his friend for the longest time, far longer than Lukas, is upset.

And Bastian's not sure why.

But he doesn't push it.

He tries not to disturb the almost-cinematic magic of the night, the sense of a classic beauty.

And Manuel doesn't say anything either, until the two are finished with their dishes and have paid the bill and are walking outside in the black night tinted by street lamps and neon signs.

"Bastian?"

"Hmm?"

"I...can't take this anymore."

"What? What are you talking about, Manu?"

"I'm talking about...us. You. Me. Us."

"What about us?"

"Benedikt...Benedikt almost didn't let me come today."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means...I can't do this to you."

"Do _what_? Look, Manu-

"I can't keep you as some side object, as something to just go to when I'm bored, or lonely."

"But you _don't_! Manuel, please-

Manuel starts walking faster, as if to run away, but Bastian jogs to keep up with him. "Benedikt said that I need to stop talking to you because-well-you'd try to take me for your own. Of course, I argued that you were in love with Lukas-

"God, Manuel! You can't let him control you! That's just stupid! I'm not going to steal you from-from _Benedikt_!

"But how does he know that? How can he know for sure you're not screwing me in some condiment closet?"

"Doesn't he trust your fidelity?"

Manuel goes quiet, and stop walking to watch the river. He spots a little red ball floating down the gentle current, bobbing in the water. He replies so quietly that Bastian can barely hear him. The wind is calming, and has slowed a stronger breeze.

"Benedikt and I had a falling out because I've been with Thomas too much."

"So he's jealous."

"No, but-

"Sounds like he's jealous."

"Maybe, but-

"He literally is saying, "you can't be with other men because I don't trust you." That's jealousy, Manu."

"Please, Bastian-

"You need to fight back! Why doesn't he trust you? You're like, the most conscientious, careful partner anyone could have! Please, please, Manu, don't listen to him!"

"But-but I love him, and I don't want to lose him."

"That shouldn't mean sacrificing your life so he's content."

"But-it takes two for a relationship."

"Right. It takes two, and one of them is you."

"But-

"We should just go home, okay? You can talk to Benedikt about what you want to do."

Manuel doesn't respond, and the pair take a shortcut through an alley to a larger street, where taxis and minivans alike blare down the road, impatient and seemingly petulant. Frowning, Bastian flags down a pale green taxi, and the two climb in without a word.

The silence is sharp, and harsh. The cab driver tries to start a conversation, but meeting the cold turkey response, gives up and turns on the radio to the American funk music station.

The first notes of a song neither Manuel nor Bastian have ever heard before begins, raspy vocals against gentle piano melody. Manuel's hands fidget in his lap, and he fights off the urge to talk to Bastian.

God, he's such an asshole, Manuel thinks to himself. Why am I even friends with him?

God, he's so fucking obsessed with some stupid guy, Bastian thinks to himself. Why am I even friends with him?

Immediately after the thought runs through his head, Manuel regrets it. Bastian has been his light, his little ray of sunshine over the years. Not even Thomas has carried such a persistent relationship with him, such a joyful, beautiful one.

And it occurs to Manuel: this is the first time they've ever done this.

Given the cold shoulder to each other.

Sure, they've been mad at each other, but it was always resolved by burning everything to the ground and starting over again, not this icy ignorance of each other, this hot pursuit of silence and devastating tranquility.

The taxi rolls to a stop, traffic building. Bastian leans his head on the glass, condensation fogging up almost immediately. Sneaking furtive looks at Manuel and pretending to stare out the window to the left of Manuel, he tries to bury the guilt of playing the icy exterior. His friend fidgets slightly, looking downwards. Manuel looks far younger than he actually is - vulnerable, unsure of himself. Behind him, outside the window, niveous lights flicker. Someone has decorated the foyer of a Gothic church with its doors wide open. Distantly, Bastian can only see empty pews and a seemingly decrepit donation box weathered by human fingers.

Observing Manuel, he watches as his friends chews on his lip, swallowing nervously and blinking rapidly, as if hiding tears.

"Manu..."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

"Please, Bastian, if you're just going to yell at me about breaking up with Benedikt..."

"I'm not going to yell at you. You seem close to tears."

Manuel himself looks out the window, watching the Christmas lights twinkle and scintillate.

"Why does he do this to me?"

Bastian picks his head up of the glass, confused.

"Do what to you?"

"Try to lock me in with him."

"What?"

"Why doesn't he trust that I won't cheat on him?"

"I don't know. Ask him."

"I'm afraid he'll leave me."

"Then so be it!"

"I can't do that. He's the one that's been watching my back for the last I-don't-know-how-many years! He's the one who used to bring me an extra cup of coffee if I couldn't stay up, he's the one who would take some stupid client off my back, he's the one who's been helping me keep my shit together-

"Manu. Manu. Listen to me."

"No, I won't leave him!"

"You don't need him."

"Yes, I do!"

"No, you don't."

"How do you know that? How do you know that I can go on living without him?"

"Because I know you."

"You don't know me."

"Yes, I do. I know quite a bit about you. I know that you hate when people click their pens. I know you hate Styrofoam cups. I know that you've secretly been keeping a journal the last two years, and that it's black with a gold ribbon. I know that you used to be fascinated by Disney princesses but gave them up after Thomas got you into My Little Pony. I know-

"That's just stupid stuff."

"I know that you love Benedikt so much that you're willing to sacrifice everything you already have in your life to be with him."

Manuel's quiet.

"Basti, I'm scared."

"I know. You're scared of rejection, and everything falling apart."

"I'm scared of ending up as some wandering vagrant, an itinerant, a gypsy that belongs to nothing and nobody and nowhere. I won't have anywhere I call home."

"You can always come to my house if anything happens."

"Lukas wouldn't like that."

"No, he wouldn't, but you're my friend, and you're important."

"I could never do to you."

"Just offering my services."

"Basti..."

"I'll always be there for you, okay?"

Reaching over, the older man grabs Manuel's hand, kneading the palms gently.

"Manuel, did you hear me?"

"Yes, I know."

"Do you really know?"

"I know! Okay? Don't worry! I know, I get it. I'll come find you if I need it."

The taxi driver pulls to a stop and interrupts before Bastian can reply.

"Here at the tall one's house."

Manuel glances outside to confirm, and seeing his little cottage completely dark besides one little front window, he nods subconsciously. Opening the door, he gets out of the car and slams the door, startling Bastian slightly.

Bastian can only shake his head sadly, and at the taxi driver's questioning glances, he gives the driver the leeway of one word:

"Go."

The taxi pulls away from Manuel's street, and soon it disappears into a dark oblivion strung out by streetlights and empty beer bottles and at least two drunk men passed out on the sidewalk. Bastian closes his eyes, his head a soup of anger and fear and doubt. The traffic lights are harsh upon the empty pavement, casting their stark, metallic illuminations upon grey stone.

* * *

"Basti, we need to talk."

Five words.

Universally hated; unequivocally terrifying.

"Lukas, I'm sorry."

Three words.

Meaningless; empty.

"This isn't fair to me. And you know that."

Nine words.

Hurtful; fathomless.

"I promise I won't leave again."

Six words.

Broken; hollow.

"But how the hell do I know that you aren't screwing some guy? Three hours is a lot of time, Bastian."

"You need to trust me. Why can't you trust me? I love you. Only you. I was just having dinner with Manuel."

Twenty-one words; twenty-two words.

Cramped; barren.

"Why?"

One word.

Lethal.

"Lukas, please."

"Please? _Please?_ Don't fucking say _please_ with me. Don't you fucking take me for granted. You're always putting me off so you can hang out with other guys. God, Bastian, I'm your fiancé! Why aren't you spending time with _me?_ "

"I am! I'm here with you right now! Doesn't that show you I care?"

"No, because you would have come home anyways."

"How do you know that? How do you know that I wouldn't just leave and never come back? How do you know that I _won't_ leave and never come back?"

"You would never."

"No, I wouldn't. But when you're claiming I'm cheating on you? With Manuel, of all people?"

"I don't know anymore. I don't know anymore, Bastian. I don't know if you would leave me. I don't know if you even love me. Worst of all..."

"What? What, Lukas? Talk to me. Whatever you want to do, talk to me. Please don't ignore me."

"Worst of all, I don't know if I love you anymore. Basti-"

Bastian doesn't let him finish. He walks out of the white, white room before Lukas can finish, slamming the door as hard as he can.


	2. ii

* * *

_No need to worry, there's no urgency here,_  
_I'm all good, I'll be on my way, and oh,_  
 _But I'm too proud to say, I need anyone else but me,_  
_But then I'm right back on my street...  
_ -Ella Eyre, Home

Lukas hates the tears when they start, because he doesn't understand why they're there.

He doesn't understand why _he's_ here, why he can't be young, and happy, and free again.

Happy.

Such a foreign, beautiful emotion, a beautiful emotion lost to him and his stupid ways.

Why did he have to ask those questions? Those pointless, worthless questions that had now broken everything?

Now Bastian knew.

Now Bastian knew that Lukas didn't trust him, that Lukas had his doubts about everything when Lukas was supposed to be the confident, unwavering one who carried the faith, carried the hope for a more perfect relationship untouched by infidelity and now...it was all ruined.

The room's a desolate shade of pallor, the only furniture two cream-colored chairs.

One for Bastian and one for himself.

It was this stupid fucking white room that they first told each other they loved each other.

Lukas hated that cliché shit, because it meant nothing and was nothing.

But right now?

It had to mean something.

It meant hope and dreams, promising futures and idyllic plans.

It meant a home.

It meant a guy that was yours.

It meant you were a guy's.

It meant trust, and not the blind jealousy they had plunged into.

But how could Lukas know?

How could Lukas know that Bastian wasn't going over to somebody's house right now for a quick, raunchy bit of sex?

Or a mournful caress?

Or something that meant more?

Something that meant that the engagement was off and that all had fallen and crumbled?

God, Lukas couldn't think about it.

Why couldn't they just be _normal_ and fight about doing the dishes and working at the office too late and taking out the trash and putting the wrong laundry detergent in?

Normal and free.

If only they could be as remotely close as free.

It occurred to Lukas that his destiny did not contain the word 'free'. He had never been free. There was always something and somebody to consider, something and somebody he was attached to. He had never been allowed the metaphorical untethering to venture into outer space - in his case the "real world". It was always Mum or Sis or Da or Monika or _anybody_.

He was sick of always being the one to sacrifice, always being the one to give up everything so that others could buoy in their own oceans.

The tears flow freely by this point, and adjusting to sit on the floor, Lukas tilts his head back to rest against the white wall, refusing to wipe the stupid drops of shame and guilt off.

Bastian.

God, he loved Bastian.

Bastian was so...open, so warm, a beacon of unbridled passion and concentrated hope.

Bastian made him feel like he was truly at home with someone he loved, someone he would be willing to give up the rest of his days, the rest of his youth, the rest of his freedom up for to be with.

But there has to be that stupid little declaration, that stupid little speech inside his heart that screamed to run free, that screamed for Lukas to cut all the ribbons off, to sever everything he was attached with.

And he hated it.

Oh, he hated that little voice that betrayed his fidelity, that betrayed his dreams, his misty-eyed, hazy version of a predestined future: Bastian and himself standing on a sun-cheeked balcony, old, retired, happy.

It all circled back to happy.

When did it ever become okay for a five-letter to change everything?

Listless, Lukas gets on his knees, half-crawling to one of the cream-colored chairs. Finding Bastian's tan coat sitting peacefully on one, he picks it up, stroking the pale fabric. Bringing it to his nose, he breathes in Bastian's cologne, tears blurring and smearing his vision. Wiping them off with the sleeve of his turtleneck, he tries to shut down his mind and calm down. Finding it unsuccessful, he lets the thoughts run.

_Bastian._

_Bastian._

_Bastian._

_How can I do this to him?_

_I can't hold him down._

_I should know by this point that it sucks to hold someone down._

_Maybe I'm just not right for him._

_I have to stay strong._

_How am I going to do that?_

_I don't know._

_I don't know how I'm going to be able to do that._

_What if he thinks this is because of him?_

_It's not._

_Well, it is._

_But it's not._

_It's mostly me._

_I can't hold him back like this._

_Maybe he truly loves Manuel._

_Maybe Manuel's best for him._

_But Benedikt..._

_Don't think about Benedikt right now._

_Just Bastian._

_Bastian..._

_Why did I have to fall in love with that kind of a guy?_

_This ray of light._

_Foul darkness shouldn't ruin light for others._

_Or else it'll keep beautiful things in the dark._

_So it's decided, then._

_Is it?_

_Is it decided?_

_It should be._

_I need to let him go._

_I need to let him go._

_I need to let him go so that he can be open and free._

_I can't keep him anymore._

_I can't do this to him._

_God, Bastian._

_This is only because I love you._

_Really love you._

_Okay._

_So it is decided._

_Yes._

_It's decided._

* * *

 

The sink's handles are metallic and cold, covered in condensation from the longest shower Bastian has ever taken.

A shower in which Bastian wanted to drown out his pain, his regret, his unyielding guilt that tasted bitter in his mouth and in his lungs like the first and last cigarette he ever had.

A shower in which Bastian rubbed his skin so hard with the body wash that his skin had turned red and raw.

Kind of like his heart.

Damaged.

Shattered.

Vulnerable.

Prone to attack by somebody, anybody.

He hated the vulnerability, the fragility.

It made him feel weak, broken, helpless.

The world was burning before his eyes.

His life was crumbling: his greatest friends were breaking it off like Corinthian pillars crashing in great pieces of marble, his vexing hopes disintegrating into frigid autumn air, his past rapidly changing into a heavily mired version of a vision of the distant future.

His heart, rended and suffering, didn't understand what to do.

Standing over the sink, naked and dripping in water, Bastian looks into the mirror, contemplating his reflection.

"What have I done?" He whispers with a penitent air, words each filled with gut-wrenching guilt.

Lukas.

How could he have done such a thing to Lukas?

Of course Lukas had a right to not trust him, had a right to question where Bastian was!

He didn't even tell his fiancé where he was for three hours! How did he expect Lukas to take that in the first place?

And ignoring the brunette's constant texting?

He found it surprising that Lukas didn't even bring that up.

Perhaps Lukas was so pissed at him for all the other bits that he didn't bother with the triviality of the ignored text messages.

What had he done?

He had broken the closest relationship he had ever had.

Ten years together with this stupid, stupid guy.

And Bastian's afraid that it had all been for nothing.

That he had just wasted time on some random guy, some random guy who didn't love him as much as he should.

What if Lukas didn't love him at all?

What if Lukas was just trying to get out of this?

No.

That couldn't be true.

Because if it was true, he would have backed out years ago.

So why was he jealous?

Grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his body, Bastian walks out of the rapidly-cooling bathroom. The rest of his apartment is lukewarm, a melangé of hot and cold, a dirtied amalgam of mildew and stale ghosts of the past.

It's the little shoebox apartment that his mother and father bought him as a twentieth birthday present.

It was here that Bastian and Lukas fell in love, even if they didn't admit it.

It was here that they would bake American apple turnovers together, splicing them with touches of Nutella to make Manuel happy. Two Germans making a classically German pastry in an American way with a touch of Italian spread.

Think about that.

It all comes back to Bastian in a jealous rush of dread and hazy nostalgia, the bittersweetness of old times washing over him cruelly, violently.

Wearily, Bastian makes his way to his own room.

He has not been in here for seven weeks.

The bed is still made, the closet still half open, the dresser adorned with a shy athletic red sock and a silver bangle he bought when he traveled to Spain. It was slightly duller than it had been when he first got it, given the years of abuse it had suffered in Bastian's posession. His nightlight - a teal Tiffany & Co. stained glass figurine of bluebell flowers which he had lugged back from his trip to New York, to the annoyance of Manuel and the teasing of Lukas - is collecting dust so thick that Bastian can see the fine line of grey covering the glass. Walking over to open his dresser, he works on dressing himself, wallowing in an odd emotion he can't put a finger on. His thoughts are in flurries.

_Black socks._

_Dark, navy jeans._

_Green undershirt._

_White t-shirt._

_Black Pea Coat._

_Grey scarf?_

_No._

_Grey's too neutral._

_But maybe pretending to be neutral is a good thing._

_But neutral really isn't right._

_Perhaps the white one's the best idea._

_White's too innocent._

_Plus it'll be really harsh against the black, and everyone's just going to say that it's supposed to be some kind of symbolic 'light in darkness' shit, or something like that._

_But if I do black, I'll be labelled as some depressed freak with no self-control._

_Maybe that is what I am._

_But it doesn't matter, really._

_It shouldn't matter._

_I've always just been Bastian, this put-together person who always knew who was best at what and who liked what and how to make them merge inside a company._

_And now?_

_Now I'm having troubles merging myself._

_There's fun Bastian, spontaneous Bastian, confident Bastian who will fight for what he wants. Bastian exudes hope and is convivial and gregarious to his full potential. Bastian who adores Manuel and hopes he's well but also understands that he's with Lukas and loves Lukas so dearly he wouldn't even consider letting go of it all._

_And then there's shy Bastian, quiet Bastian, fragile Bastian that is afraid of love and life and keeps accidentally dipping his toes into some of the thousand forms of fear that can exist. A Bastian that isn't sure about what he feels, and knows that he isn't sure._

_A Bastian that is so okay with being unsure that he'd risk everything to try to get one thing or the other._

_I'm not sure how to bring upon unity and peace upon the two._

_That's why I'm constantly at a cold war with myself._

_I'm fighting, but I'm not._

_I'm hesitant, but pretend to be confident._

_I'm afraid, but I try to seem sure._

_I'm careful, but I make myself daring._

_Perhaps I am a mold of the two._

_But being the mold of two doesn't work._

_At least not right now._

_Because the pieces don't fit together._

_There are jagged edges and rough feelings in the middle that protrude at funny angles. They rendezvous and talk, but don't touch._

_I hate it._

_I wish I could just be one genuine person._

_Like Thomas._

_Somebody so okay with his imperfections that he turns the imperfections into perfections._

_Thomas had his heart torn apart._

_But he's okay now, it seems._

_Maybe I can do the same._

_Can I do the same?_

_Can I really fight for somebody?_

_Somebody to be mine?_

_Mine._

_Somebody who will hold me, and let me hold them._

_Somebody who will love me, and let me love them back._

_I don't think I've had that yet._

_I'm not sure Lukas really loves me._

_Maybe I'm not right for him._

_Maybe we just have to take a break._

_I'll move to Berlin, maybe, or maybe somewhere crazy, like Malaysia._

_Or maybe I can move back home._

_Kolbermoor._

_But München is my home, too._

_Maybe Lukas should go back to Cologne, or maybe even Gliwice._

_He's happiest in Cologne._

_He loves it there._

_Perhaps I should be like Thomas._

_Live like a gypsy, love like a gypsy, understand like a gypsy._

_None of this will be forever._

_I just have to savor what I have._

Before he realizes it, Bastian is already kneeling down to tie the laces on his second shoe, stringing them up in a little bow. He lets out a quiet, shaky breath, and stands up, blood twinged with adrenaline. His mind is apprehensive, anxious.

The bad kind. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and taking one last look at the apartment, Bastian steps out the door, closing it and locking up promptly. Heading down the hallway and peering through the circular window that lies at the end of it, he notices that the weather has cleared, and that the sunlight had already started breaking through the thick downpour that had followed his departure from Lukas'. He watches the sun's gentle beams caress the passerby below and smiling slightly, he turns a corner and hustle down carpeted steps. He's going to tell Lukas, and there isn't anything anyone can do about it.


	3. iii

_And I find myself at home, home no never be scared,_  
_Home's where my family are, I'm home no never look back,_  
 _Hold on to what I have..._  
 _I'm not afraid to use the phone, 'cause I don't have to be alone,_  
 _No I'll never be scared, and oh, so I find myself at home._  
-Ella Eyre, Home

"I'm sorry I said that, I-

"No, I'm sorry. Please don't be sorry. Luki, it was all my fault-

"No, it was mine. I did this to you. I held you back. I told you that awful shit..."

"It wasn't awful. What you were worried about was valid. Though I'm not going to sleep with Manuel, or anyone besides you for that matter, I get it."

"I-

"No. Lukas, please. I don't want it all to come crashing down."

"I don't either. Nobody wants that to happen."

"We've been together for ten fucking years, you'd think we would be able to get passed jealousy a lot faster than we did here."

"Lukas..."

"Yeah?"

"Can you tell me something?"

"Sure. Come at me, Bastian."

"Why were you jealous?"

"What?"

"Why exactly were you jealous? Yeah, I get it, I was gone with Manuel and didn't tell you. You probably called Benedikt and he said Manuel wasn't there. You texted me, and I ignored you. But why...why think so much out of so little?"

"I don't know what I was thinking!"

"Yes, you do. Don't lie to me."

"Okay, fine. I...was confused about where we were."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I wasn't sure if I loved you."

"But do you love me?"

"I don't know, yes?"

"How are you not sure? I'm absolutely sure. I love you. Why can't you love me back?"

"Bastian, I didn't say-

"You said you didn't know. Which means you might not love me back. What am I going to do then? Pine over some guy who won't ever be satisfied with who I am? Expect that everything will be smooth, clear waters?"

"Bastian, please-

"I don't understand why you couldn't have just said 'yes' and be done with it-

"Is that really what you want, Bastian? Validation that I love you?"

"That's exactly what I want. And don't kiss me, that's stupid and cliché."

"Fine. I love you. Happy?"

"No. Because you don't mean it. And I don't know if you'll ever mean it. Will you ever mean it? Will you ever mean it so much that you'd be willing to risk everything for me?" "It's just that-

"What? What the fuck is so important that you'd give up us?"

"I don't have any freedom-

"Oh, you don't have freedom? You literally became jealous and possessive and told me I couldn't go out with guys!"

"That was stupid-

"And this isn't?"

"You don't even know what 'this' is!"

"I know exactly what 'this' is! You're saying that I'm holding you back from your potential, from your youth. You have this preconceived idea in your stupid little head that you can date someone as model-like and pretty as fucking Marco!"

"Is that really what you think of me? That I'm into guys just because they have abs and good thighs?"

"So you think that Marco has good thighs."

"No, I-

"Don't play pretend with me. I'm not a kid. I'm just as old as you are."

"You're the one being childish!"

"Oh, really? Enlighten me, please."

"You literally just said that I'm into guys only when they're super hot."

"I didn't say that!"

"Yes, you did! You said I imagined that I would be able to date someone like Marco. Hell, I bet I could sleep with the boy in an hour if you arranged it for me."

"So you're willing to cheat on me to win a bet. Great character, Lukas."

"You get what I mean! I don't...think that."

"Uh-huh. Totally got that from your wonderful example."

"Bastian, please-

"No, this isn't up for discussion! Do you love me, or do you not?"

"I do, but-

"Then why don't you have the balls to admit to yourself that you love me?"

"I do! And I do love you! I really, really love you!"

"Then why don't we get married, soon? Why do you think that I cheat on you with Manuel, of all people?"

"Because we're not ready for it. And I don't know, you were gone, I was tired, I was paranoid."

"How aren't we ready for marriage? What are you talking about?"

"We're not. You think we're ready for marriage?"

"Then why did you say yes when I proposed to you, Lukas?"

"I..."

"You...?"

"I..."

"What? What?! Tell me, for fuck's sake!"

"I didn't want you to break up with me, so I said yes."

Bastian swallows nervously, the first time he's paused since he arrived.

"So you said you would marry me without knowing whether you wanted to marry me?"

"No, I-

"Then what?"

"Okay, maybe, but-

"So you don't love me as much as you say you do."

"I do love you-

"Then prove it to me! Prove to me that you love me so much you'd be willing to give up everything - including your freedom - up for me!"

"Bastian-

"If you can't, then I guess you don't love me. I guess I've wasted my time, and attention. I guess I've wasted my youth on a guy who wouldn't even give me the time of day to let me tell him that he was so important to me I'd be willing to jump off a cathedral spire if he asked me to. I guess-

"What?"

"What?"

"You would...?"

"Of course I would. Wouldn't you?"

"Well, I don't know about that..."

"So you doubt our relationship."

"Bastian, how can you be so sure that I'm the one for you? How can you be so sure that you would even suggest...that?"

"What, suicide?"

"God, why are we talking about it like this? It's supposed to be serious, not dramatic and romantic-

"We're not making it romantic. Romeo and Juliet already did that."

"Bastian, please-

"Lukas, look. I love you. I hope you love me back. Okay?"

"Okay. I think I love you."

"You think?"

"I can't be sure."

"Maybe we should take a break."

"No. No, absolutely not."

"Lukas, it'll give you your freedom-

"Bastian, no. No. No. Do not leave me."

"Luki, think about all the guys you could date-

"I only want you. Bastian, please. Is this so you can be happy with someone else? If it is-

"No. But I could ask you the same question."

"What? I'm refuting this! Because it's a terrible idea!"

"Right. Of course."

"I am! What are you talking about, Bastian?"

"I'm saying that I don't get it why you can't make up your mind about you and I."

"I-

"Please don't say that you want to let me run free. To be honest with you, I really think that you and I are endgame. We're going to age together, loving each other through blood and sweat and broken dishes and risky promises. But please, please, at least give a chance to show you how much I love you."

"Don't kiss me."

"I don't understand you, okay? I don't understand how indecisive you are! It's either you love me, or you don't love me. If you don't, then we should take a break. Maybe you'll realize you do. If you do love me, then why don't you just tell me? I love you back, okay? Don't be afraid. Lukas, look at me. Don't. Be. Afraid. To. Admit. It." "Bastian, I..."

"God, I love you so fucking much. Please tell me you love me. Please tell me that you need me like I need you."

"I did tell you I love you."

"But mean it this time. Really, really, mean it, like you'll sacrifice your soul for it. Like this is important to you."

"It is important to me."

"Then why can't you tell me that you love me like I love you?"

"Because..."

"Because what?"

"Bastian, I'm afraid that I'll be wrong-

"Don't be afraid."

"Okay, but what if-what if we have a fight? W-what if we have a fight, and you get so angry that you stop talking to me forever? I mean, we've had our fights, and stupid shit like that. But not...silence. Radio silence. Complete radio silence from each other. I'm terrified that we'll fight and you'll leave me forever and that I'll just _lose _it because you're not there..."__

"I won't leave you, I promise."

"And how do I trust that? How do I trust that you'll never leave me for the dead? How do I know that you won't storm out of my house like you did earlier if you and I fight?"

Bastian bites his lip, chewing at a bit of skin on the lower one. Sighing, he sits on his hands, eyes crumpling with emotion.

"Lukas, I swear that if I ever leave you again like I did, I'll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. Because you are so much apart of me and my life and everything around me that...without you, I'd be a different person. A really different person."

Lukas is quiet, clutching the hem of his bright red sweatshirt. This is the guy who I'd always dreamed of being, Lukas thinks to himself. But...

"What if it doesn't work out?"

"What if what doesn't work out?"

"Marriage."

"Why would it not work out?"

"I don't know, it just wouldn't work out. We weren't compatible. We were living in torture, and we were just bad for each other."

"I wouldn't ever let go of you."

"But what if it's bad for us?"

"Then we won't live together. We'll continue to talk, no matter how pissed at me you are, or how pissed at you I am."

"That's not realistic."

"Why can't we be idealistic for once in our lives? Why can't we look at the future with a bit more of the rosy aspect? Why do we always have to look at the future in doom, and gloom, and terror?"

"Because normally the rosy version is wrong and the doom, gloom, and terror version is right."

"I suppose that we're just going to have to break the meaning of 'normal'."

"Bastian, I don't know-

"Hey. Okay. In the end, it all boils down to this: do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Then tell that to me again. Confident."

"I love you."

"Say it again, but louder."

"I love you, Basti."

"Louder. There's nobody around here. C'mon, let it all out."

"I love you, Bastian! I love you, I love you, I love you!"

"Louder!"

"I LOVE YOU, BASTIAN SCHWEINSTEIGER! I LOVE YOUR STUPID JOKES AND YOUR STUPID SNIDE FACE AND YOUR STUPID FASCINATION WITH REALITY TV AND YOUR STUPID, STUPID CRUSH ON THIS GUY!"

"And who's this guy?"

"Me."

"Who?"

"Me!"

"Who?!"

"ME! LUKAS PODOLSKI! I LOVE BASTIAN SCHWEINSTEIGER AND HE LOVES ME!"

"That's good to know, the rest of the world says."

Lukas blushes, cheeks reddening quickly. Bastian reaches for his hand, squeezing Lukas' fingers gently twice. "I'm going to kiss you now, is that okay?" "Do you even have to ask?" The two smile and press their lips to each other, tender, sweet, romantic. Outside, the sun is beginning to set, an orange November sky dotted with vibrant fuchsia, elegant magenta and magnetically beautiful waves of pale grey cirrus clouds.


	4. iv

_And it's alright, if there's one thing I know,_  
_To get that good feeling, I know just where to go,_  
_'Cause everything's easy, everything's falls into place,_  
_And there's somewhere I can hide, when I just need a break, oh_  
-Ella Eyre, Home

Benedikt tries to hold his petulant frustration in, his brutal urgency fighting a civil war with the divinities of patience and harmony in his mind.

It's quite ironic, Benedikt thinks, that he's in a relationship with the most honest, decent man he has ever known yet is now questioning himself on whether that same man is cheating on him with some stupid guy.

Manuel had dismissed it as just have dinner with Bastian.

But he had seemed flushed, nervous, unsure for the first time in quite a while. Quiet a while as in, well, ever since they got together at that fateful party at Thomas'.

Manuel had always been a silent confidant of peace and honesty, and there was never any sign of defiance between the two of them. No, there was. But it was always Benedikt's job to be defiant, to add the fuel to the fire. The fires were always put out by Manuel.

Manuel wasn't one to wage war and cry and scream and bring daggers to the ring.

So why would he lie to Benedikt now?

Why would he try to break everything now, risk everything?

It's obvious to Benedikt.

He had been a boring partner for the last three months.

He had been a boring lover.

He had been a boring friend.

He had been a boring cook.

He had been a boring coworker.

He had been a boring boyfriend.

He had just been boring, boring, boring.

Everyday, it was always the same.

Professional, serious Benedikt who didn't like to let his walls down.

Closed, put-together Benedikt that was shy when he stripped in front of Manuel but also wouldn't cry in front of the blond, preferring to let his frustration out as tears in the shower, where they would get lost among the hot water and the temporary curtain of condensation and warmth.

It was difficult for him to be emotional in front of Manuel.

But at the same time, it was difficult for him to get passionate, get spontaneous about life. Everything with him had to be planned, set, placed in a very specific fashion. Manuel was probably tired of it.

The thoughts are violent in Benedikt's head, and alone in the coffeeshop, with nobody but a young male barista in sight. Trying not to stare, Benedikt watches the barista out of his peripheral vision, observing him rubbing his biceps nonchalantly with his right hand as he checks his phone in his left. The barista's handsome, Benedikt admits to himself. Well-built and equipped with dark, curly hair, Benedikt smiles crookedly. I could probably book him if I wanted, he says to himself.

All of the sudden, he drops his cup of coffee, the paper cup landing loudly against the polished tan table. Thankfully, it doesn't tip over. Blushing furiously, Benedikt turns away from the barista, sipping his coffee, trying to act normal.

"Hey."

His voice carries a melodious lilt, and it catches Benedikt that this isn't right.

_Should he say 'hey' back?_

_Maybe._

_Just to be polite,_ he thinks.

"Hey."

 _Don't look at him,_ Benedikt says to himself.

_Don't look at him._

_Don't look at him._

_Don't look at him._

_Okay, fine, let's look at him._

Turning back around, a single eyebrow raised, he realizes that the barista's said something and he didn't catch it.

"Um, what?"

The dark-haired one laughs, smirk splitting across his face.

"I was just asking if you were having a good day or not."

"Uh, why?"

"Hospitality. Problem with that?"

"No, no. Um, well-I-no. I haven't been having a good day. But thank you for asking."

The smirk's immediately dropped from the handsome barista's face, and replaced with a look of sincere concern.

"Why? What happened?"

"Well...my boyfriend and I...are on the rocks."

The look on the barista's face changes once again, and his eyebrows scrunch together in a manner that Benedikt deems, well, admittedly cute.

"Wait, you're gay?"

"Yeah. Is there something...wrong with that?"

The barista shakes his head and smiles gently.

"No, of course not. My brother's gay, too. Anyways. What happened between you and...him?"

"He blew me off and didn't tell me where he went for three hours."

"That sucks ass. What an asshole."

"He's not an asshole."

"Sorry. It sure is an asshole thing to do."

"Yeah, I guess..."

Benedikt's words trail off, and he catches himself before he can reveal more. He had never been the type to talk to handsome baristas about his personal troubles. He had always tried being a practical, simple person who didn't like getting personal with other people.

Not even Manuel.

Maybe that was why they were...feuding.

Were they really feuding?

They hadn't talked since Manuel came home. Well, Manuel tried to talk but Benedikt was too sick and tired of Manuel's excuses to give it at shot.

They slept in different beds that night.

In the middle of the night, Benedikt woke up, shivering and teeth chattering violently. Even with the comforter over his body, he felt chilled to the bone, empty, lonely. He was far too angry to go find Manuel so he tried to just shut out the world and fall asleep, braving the cold by himself.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"Wow, you're really out of it, aren't you? I said, do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about you."

The barista closes his eyes, shaking his head and smiling.

"Your boyfriend, silly."

"Oh-um-no, that's okay. I'll be okay. Thanks for the coffee."

Benedikt gets up, and walking over, he throws the paper cup into the trash dispenser, the barista staring mouth half-opened in surprise.

"Bye."

"O-okay, bye."

Benedikt bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile at the barista's stutter. This isn't the kind of guy who stutters, Benedikt thinks to himself.

As he pushes the door open, he's rushed into the idyllic sunlight of a München late morning, descending back into the land of the living and out of the ghost town that is the coffee shop. Walking down the sidewalk, he doesn't even notice the half-broken neon sign that rests above the bar-door where the old barman still works, and that he first knew that he could first trust Manuel to be a dependent person and lover. When he reaches the cross-section, only two things occur to him: 1) the woman next to him has a really chic black-and-white backpack, and 2) the muted sounds he heard before he fell asleep last night weren't just restless floorboards and the uneasy heater; it was Manuel in bed, shaking, being racked with muffled sobs.

* * *

Bastian's texts push Manuel close to tears again, for the fortieth time in the last 24 hours.

BASTIAN

u ok?

MANUEL

no, you?

BASTIAN

i'm ok. lukas and i are ok. benedikt good with u?

MANUEL

we

BASTIAN

you...

MANUEL

we slept in separate beds for the first time in months and months

BASTIAN

shit wtd?

MANUEL

idk i was crying last night

BASTIAN

did he hear you? r u gonna be ok? do u want the bastiano to come over and make the ducky feel better? we can watch the american funny movies if you want.

MANUEL

i don't think he heard me. no its ok lukas needs u, judging by his texts

BASTIAN

wait what did he say about me?????

MANUEL

'tell bastian i love him' for like an entire hour

BASTIAN

i need therapy

MANUEL

more like you both need therapy

BASTIAN

yeah, probably

MANUEL

i'll be ok don't worry basti

BASTIAN

ok but i will

MANUEL

don't. see you soon, ok?

BASTIAN

okay, manu. stay safe.

MANUEL

btw, do you want your scarf back?

BASTIAN

no, keep it, if it makes you feel better.

MANUEL

i will, then.

Alone at home, he goes into the study - Benedikt's study - and finding one of Benedikt's scarves, he pulls it from its impromptu place on the whitewashed window ledge. Pulling it around his neck, he runs his fingers through the wool, kneading the coarse fabric. Sitting down in the leather chair, he picks up one of the piles of thick files stacked and strewn across the mahogany desk, extracting a particularly thick one strenuously. Flipping through, the numbers and words fuzz, nebulous, amorphous patterns of black across white, reticular patterns of meaning and no meaning at all.

Setting the file down, he massages his temples, kicking his feet up on the desk. The thoughts are familiar, repetitive, necessary.

This never should have happened, they start.

It's a terrible idea to date your coworkers, let alone love them to the point where you would be willing to give anything to have them love you back.

Being with Philipp was never like that.

No, no.

Philipp always liked to play it safe, and Manuel always played it safe, whether he liked it or not.

There was no risk-taking or unbridled freedom to do, well, anything in his life.

There was just work, and work, and a drink, work, drink, work, drink.

But not in the alcoholic way.

It was just drink, because it wasn't always alcohol.

His beverage schedule was quite interesting in its own way.

Mondays was sparkling apple cider with Thomas.

Tuesdays was orange juice with Marco and Mario.

Wednesdays was...anything, with Basti and Lukas.

Thursdays was milk with Benedikt.

Fridays was cappucinos with Benedikt.

Saturdays was alcoholic drinks at the bartender's.

Sundays was flat water with, well, anyone who was willing to sit down and get personal with him over plain water.

Sundays was the day where Benedikt and Manuel liked to stay at the office late, together, working on some inane project, one of three people still in the building that wasn't a security guard at that time into the deep night. Sundays was the day where Benedikt and Manuel would try to sneak in make-out sessions without catching the attention of a guard. Sundays was the day where Manuel liked to look in the mirror at 3:00 a.m. into the next Monday and think, _do I really like who I am?_

Occasionally when he did this, Benedikt would be with him, and if Manuel said it out loud, Benedikt would answer with a quiet _If you don't like you, I like you._

And most of the time that would be enough.

But last night?

Last night he didn't do it, because he certainly didn't want to see tear-stained cheeks and cloudy eyes filled with guilt and pain.

Last night he certainly wasn't with Benedikt at the office, and they certainly weren't making out.

Instead, he had been with Bastian, and they had laughed, and talked, and laughed, and talked some more at some lowkey Italian restaurant along the river.

And Manuel had been happy.

Happier than he had been in what felt like forever.

But he was also happy with Benedikt.

Could he really dump Benedikt, leave Benedikt in the dust for Bastian?

Bastian, in all his effortless charm and charismatic air?

Perhaps.

But could he really even hold hands with Bastian without thinking of Benedikt, his Benedikt?

No, of course not.

Manuel thinks that he can't even touch Bastian in any form without thinking of Benedikt, of Benedikt holding him when Manuel's father passed on, of Benedikt kissing him stupid in the office, of Benedikt telling him that stupid day at Thomas' coffee rave that having someone there that cared about you was the most important thing.

Did he really care about Benedikt?

Yes, of course.

You're supposed to care about the person you love, right?

Did Benedikt care about him?

Maybe.

Did he?

Running his hands through his hair, Manuel curses under his breath and how stupidly complex his relationship has become.

He'd always wanted something simple, to the point.

Not this drama, this unbelievable roller coaster.

Maybe he should call Benedikt right now. His mind wages battle.

No, he shouldn't call Benedikt.

But Benedikt...he had to talk to Benedikt.

Phone wasn't right, though.

God, just call him! It's not that big of a deal anyways!

This had to be sincere, though. It could break anything forever.

Call him, asshole.

Don't you dare, idiot.

Manuel picks up the phone anyway, and dials Benedikt, one number at a time.

When all digits are in, he lets out a nervous sigh, and presses call.

First ring.

No answer.

Second ring.

No answer.

_God, why isn't he picking up?_

Third ring.

No answer.

_What if he's already with another man? No, no, no!_

Fourth ring.

No answer.

"You have reached the voicemail of: Benedikt Höwedes. To leave a message, please talk after the beep."

God, no.

Why?

Hang up, loser!

Don't leave him a voicemail.

The beep's metallic, flat of emotion, void of meaning besides an indicator that the machine's now giving its undivided attention.

"H-hi, Benedikt, I hope you're-you're not too mad at me. I-I-well-I just want to talk to you, okay? I n-need to apologize for everything, and just I need to talk to you. Because I want to tell you something. Yeah. Okay. Please call me back at-oh, you should know my number. But yeah. Call me. Bye."

How could he have been so fucking stupid? God, what was he thinking?! He had just left a stuttering, idiotic voicemail in Benedikt's phone! No, no, no! What had he done? How could he have been so naive? So clueless? Why did he call? God, why did he call?

And then it occurs to Manuel: it could have went worse.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he ties Benedikt's scarf tighter around his neck, and walking out of the study, he picks up his thicker, heavier navy jacket, draping it over his button down. Smiling tightly, he tries to keep his emotions down to a boil, and running his hand through his hair one time to make sure it's at least presentable, jogs outside, shutting the door quietly behind him. The air outside is cool, and work in gentle concentration against the sun's warm rays. Setting his mind straight, Manuel starts walking quickly.

He is going to Thomas' house for that stupid apple cider.

There will be no tears today.

Well, no more tears for the rest of the day.

He is a strong, independent man, and he's going to be okay.


	5. v

_No need to worry, there's no urgency here,_  
I'm all good, I'll be on my way,  
But I'm too proud to say, I need anyone else but me,  
But then I'm right back on my street...  
-Ella Eyre, Home

"I thought you weren't going to show, Manu, so I didn't dress at all."

A pajama-clad, messy-haired Thomas greets a huffing Manuel with, heartwarming smile already spreading across his face.

This, Manuel thinks, is the kind of Thomas I live for. Open, natural, and normal.

Well, take back the normal part.

"Aren't you going to come in, Ducky?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Okay. Yeah. Um...how've you been, Thomas?"

"I've-wait, is that what I think it is?"

Manuel starts undoing the clasps on his coat when Thomas' mouth falls open.

"What? Why are you staring at me like that?"

"It's just-Manuel, are you wearing-are you wearing Benedikt's scarf?"

"Yeah, why, is it not okay for me to wear my boyfriend's scarf?"

"Manuel. Manuel. Manuel. Give me your coat. We really have some talking to do."

Confused, and miffed at Thomas' sudden seriousness, he undoes the last clasps on his coat and hands it to Thomas, who throws it casually onto a nearby velvet chair, causing Manuel to cringe.

"Thomas, you're going to make my wallet drop out-

"For Christ's sake, Manuel, stop talking and follow me. Let's go. We're going up into the attic."

"Wait, you have an attic, Thomas?"

"Yeah, it's empty right now, but I think if I add some pictures and some furniture, it'll be okay."

"Um-well-okay."

The two men ascend the flight of stairs and a step ladder. Flipping on a pair of lights, Thomas' attic reveals itself to be unpretentious, bare, empty. The walls are furnished with just a varnished wooden barrier that seems to continue up from the floor - it's almost as if floor boards also make up the triangular ceiling. The fittings in the room are limited to an black à la mode light fixture shaped like a bird in flight, and a simple table with just two chairs to play accompaniment.

"When did you put this place together?"

"There wasn't much putting together to be done, Manuel."

"And where did you get that-that light?"

"It was a gift...from Philipp."

"Wait, what?"

"You heard me right. A gift from your ex. Speaking of Philipp, he's been wanting to talk to you..."

"I have a boyfriend."

"And that's why we need to talk."

"Are you trying to get me to get back together with him?"

"No, Manuel, listen to me for once-

"Thomas, I'm not going to get back together with Philipp, of all people."

"Manu, Manu, Manu! Please, listen to me will you? Why can't you just slow down and listen to me for once? I know that I'm always the childish, talkative one who makes up the randomest shit in the world but please, please, listen to me."

"Thomas-

"Please, Manuel. Please?"

"Okay, I-

"Promise you won't interrupt me until I'm done."

"Okay. Okay. I promise."

"Can I tell you a story?"

"Is it an interruption if I answer your question?"

"No."

"Then yeah, you can tell a story."

"Okay. So. Once upon a time, little boy discovered that the world wasn't as caramel-apples-and-cotton-candy as all the fairy tales made it out to be. There also happened to be beds of thorns and unreasonable people, vile personas and brawny intolerance, if that makes any sense. I got that phrase from the internet, by the way. And no interrupting, even if I don't make any sense. Okay. So. The little boy started off innocent, happy, free - his father and mother hardworking, dedicated, and loving parents, his community safe and prosperous, his teachers educated and focused. The little boy seemed to have his entire future planned out in front of him: one day, he was going to become a famous footballer, and marry some sort of beautiful princess off in a castle somewhere and raise many, many children."

"Thomas, if this-

"No interruptions, remember? Bad Ducky. So. The little boy, hand in hand with his dream, went to the football field every day and ran until his bones ached and practiced scoring until his toes were bruised and his ankles were bloody. He would play every single afternoon after he got home from school until the sky turned so dark he couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. At that point, he went home. His mother and father, always supportive, encouraged their son to continue practice, even if it was painful to see their baby boy get hurt every day. The little boy kept practicing and bleeding and practicing and bleeding until one day, he was no longer a little boy anymore. At this point, he hadn't discovered the world was dark and dank yet, as all he had known in his life was his numbers and his letters and his chores and his mother and father and brother and of course, his football field."

"But didn't he discover the world was dark when he was a little boy?"

"I did say that, didn't I? Well, I take it back. And no more interruptions, Ducky, or I'll stop telling the story. Got it? Okay. As the boy got older, and ascended through the education system, he realized that he was no longer the only boy who dreamed of becoming a major football star and marrying a beautiful princess. There were many, many other boys who were taller, stronger, and better trained than he was. The boy had never had a coach in his life; it had always just been himself, the goal, and the grass. That was all there was to it. Meanwhile, these other boys had lifted weights and ran on treadmills and had special technical coaches - these men from far out west - tell them what to do. Naturally, the boy was jealous, unseated by their skill and their prowess. Yet, no matter how much he begged his parents to get a coach for himself and find somewhere he could work with the same technology as the other boys did, they never caved and told him okay. It was always, "No, that's too expensive, and it won't do any good." or "No, focus on your studies. Football is just a hobby." There was no middling ground, no matter how much the boy wanted it. So he had to swallow his pride, and his dream, and his hopes for the future. He realized he wouldn't ever be as good as the other boys."

"Why didn't he try?"

"Oh, he did try. He played against those boys hundreds upon hundreds of times but they were always victorious. The first time they played, they beat the boy 3-2. Claiming it as a close defeat, the boy persisted. The next game, it became 4-3. Push on, push on, the boy told himself. One day, you will be victorious. One day, you'll show them that popularity and money and fancy technology can't beat old-fashioned dedication. The third time, it was 5-4. Frustrated, the boy sucker punched one of them in the mouth. He left the stadium with a black eye for himself and a sprained ankle. The fourth, 6-5. 7-6. 8-7. 9-8. Then: 1-0. For the first time in his life, the boy suffered the most humiliating thing in the world: not scoring a single goal. I will avenge myself, he had screamed after the match was over, his words disappearing in the thick, hot air. 2-0. Their taunts grew stronger, and the boy's persistence weakened. 4-0. 3-0. 5-0. 6-0. The boy gave up. He had had enough of these boys with their fancy technology and their snooty egos. He stopped playing football - well, to be more accurate, he started hating football, much to the concern of his parents. This was the boy who would be willing to bleed at the ankle to play for just another twenty minutes and brave the dark mile-long walk just so he could shoot a couple more goals. They had never known their son to hate something so much he wouldn't even look at a football field when they passed by it in the automobile. Desperately, they tried asking the boy, nudging the boy to go play again, remembering how happy the boy had been in his younger years, even if he had been playing alone. They had thought a team of older, more experienced boys would have aided the boy, would have helped the boy mature and develop until he was just as fine as player as them. But no. The boy's spirit, the boy's will to play football had died, then and there on that fateful field, to the mercy of these older boys. Unsure of what to do, they gave up eventually too. As the weeks passed of not playing football, the boy forgot everything he had once learned, everything he had once pushed himself to learn all by himself with no instructor, with no one to tell him what to do and what not to do."

"What happened to him?"

"Patience, Manuel. Though he had gone through something of great fury and great strife, the boy was still pure, still naive to the terrors of the wide world. After his dreams of football died, he no longer wanted to marry a beautiful princess and have many, many children. He just wanted to be happy again. Yes, he was unhappy. He was unhappy with what he had given - but he had not realized the true extent of his departure, of his eventual willingness to give up. His parents split up, and his brother passed away soon after due to some unknown disease. He admitted to his bisexuality. His father rejected it, and his mother didn't particularly like it either. Fatigued from all the rejection and all the loss, the pain and the suffering, he plunged into bouts of depression frequently, each time coming up less hopeful than the last. At school, his grades began to choke, and soon they sputtered. His teachers were calling and emailing his parents on the daily because of his 'inappropriate behavior'. His life felt like the rebirth of hell."

"Thomas-

"Let me finish, asshole. So in this dark reincarnation of hell, he grew lonelier and lonelier. Neither girls nor boys liked him. He stayed away from drugs and alcohol, understanding their sins, feeling too lonely to even begin. He found himself in a grey, grey world, and he had neither colored pencil nor crayon nor marker nor paintbrush to color it in. He forgot about football entirely. He forgot about what it felt like to watch the sun disappear under the hill as he took water breaks from practicing. He forgot how beautiful it was to be part of a family, to be part of a group where other people loved you so dearly they'd be willing to give up their lives for you. He forgot about how the cinnamon buns smelled in the oven when he came home from school; he forgot what an hot Apfelstrudel tasted like in his mouth. In all this amnesia, he forgot one more important thing: how to not give up. And because he forgot the relentless persistence that had drove him throughout life, because he had forgotten the one thing that had defined him the most out of all other things - he was ready to give it all up, because it was no longer worth having. So one cold, winter day, he walked three miles to a little highway that connected to a quaint little town that had far more people passing through it every day than number of people actually living there. The highway traversed over a mountain pass and a valley - to save money, the government decided to build a bridge across the narrow valley and connect the two mountains that surrounded it. By some force of nature, the boy's feet found the bridge - it was snowing like mad, you see - and using his cold, half-frozen hands, he hoisted himself to the railing. Swinging his legs over, he closed his eyes to say one last prayer before he let go and let everything fade to black."

"Stop, Thomas-

"I only have a little bit to go. Please let me finish."

"Okay."

"His words were simple: _May God help those who are in need, and may they never suffer what I have been through._ And right then and there, when he was about to let go, he heard a voice. A male voice, tenor in pitch. His eyes shot open, and his grip tightened on the snow-covered railing subconsciously. The voice came again. "Hey! Is someone there?" It was just four words that saved the boy's life. He had answered back, quietly. "No. I'm not here. Please, let me die in peace." The voice came closer, and through his snowflake-coated eyelids, he made out the shape of a tall, broad man dressed in a grey, heavy overcoat."

"Thomas, I know what happens."

"Won't you let me tell the rest of it?"

"Thomas-

"And the broad man lifted the boy from the railing, carried the boy to his car, and gave him his coat. The man told him that his name was Manuel, Manuel Neuer. The boy's lips were cracked, and it was difficult for him to smile. But he tried, and he responded with four words - as many as his life was now worth. "Hello, my name's Thomas."

"Thomas, I-

And there, right there, Thomas breaks down in tears, earth-shattering tears that fly down his cheeks in little battalions.

"You saved my life."

"Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

"Because I knew that there would be a day that came that I might be able to pay you back. With, well, just a couple more than what you gave me."

"Thomas, I'm speechless."

"Clearly, you're not."

"I-Thomas, seriously, why didn't you tell me? And your parents? I never knew they were divorced, and didn't approve of your bisexuality! You told me that your dad was on vacation so he couldn't come to your wedding with Miro! And-

"I'm sorry, Manuel, for not telling you. I have kept this secret for a very, very long time, and I haven't told anyone for quite a while."

"What secret?"

"My life story."

"That's a secret?"

"Well, some parts of it."

"Thomas, I-

"God, stop saying that! You're just being repetitive!"

"Then stop cutting me off!"

"Manu. Don't apologize to me. Seriously. You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, if you were paying any attention at all, _you saved my life_.

"Wait, why are you telling me now?"

"Because Benedikt called, and I think I owe it to you to tell you not to give up."

"I'm not giving up on anything!"

"You are?"

"Then tell me. What am I giving up on?"

"Benedikt. You're giving up on Benedikt."

"I...I..."

"You're giving up on Benedikt. Or at least thinking about it."

"Thomas-

"Listen to me, now. Do not give up on Benedikt. He really, really loves you. Sure, he can be a pretentious, stuck-up fuck sometimes, but that's only sometimes, and he only does it because he loves you. Benedikt loves you, Manuel. Miroslav didn't love me. Miroslav just...used me, I guess. But Benedikt? Benedikt really, really loves you. You've never been able to see him like how I see him. The way he looks at you...what I would give to have a man look at me like that."

"But Thomas, he was jealous and suspicious of Bastian and I."

"You need to understand that he was only jealous because he was worried. He was truly worried. Do you know how many times he called me in the three hours you were gone? Six times. That's how many times. _Thomas, have you heard from him? Thomas, what if he's injured? Thomas, what if he leaves me?_ It was just 'Thomas, what if Manuel blah blah blah" all the time. He's worried he'll lose you. Really, really worried he'll lose you."

"But what can I do?"

"Talk to him. Call him. Take him out to dinner. Go have a walk. Go jog in the park. Go watch a funny movie. Whatever you do, don't give up on him. He is really, really worth it. I gave up on football. Don't you dare give up on Benedikt Höwedes, Manuel Neuer, or I will personally castrate you."

"Violent."

"But understandable?"

"Yeah."

"So, get out of my house."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get out of my house, and go talk to him. He needs you, Manuel. Don't give up on him."

"I...okay, Thomas. I promise I won't give up on him."

"Good. You better."

Still adorned with tear-stricken face, Thomas smiles as one last teardrop rolls down his cheek. Standing up, he takes Manuel's hand and leads him down the step ladder and the stairs. Grabbing Manuel's coat the second they're downstairs, he hands it to the blond. In a moment of spontaneity, instead of taking his coat, Manuel reaches out his hand, closing the gap between them and gently wipes off Thomas' tears with his fingers. Caressing the brunette's cheek, he watches as Thomas' eyes fill with an emotion he can't quite identify.

"Smile, Mülli, you're going to be okay now."

"I know, it's just..."

"What?"

"I've never had anyone who's cared about me like you have, Manuel."

Grinning, Manuel replies coyly.

"Of course you haven't. That's why I'm here. But don't worry, you'll have someone to care for you even more, to love you more than I love you."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. If I'm going to stick with Benedikt, then you're going to have to find yourself a new beau, or you're going to find yourself playing third wheel."

"You'll come over on Mondays for apple cider?"

"Yes, yes. Wait! We didn't drink any today."

"I think we've had enough for today, Manuel."

"Yeah, okay. Bye, Mülli."

"Bye, Ducky."

And once again, Manuel's reacquainted with the fine, freezing air, and a civil wave of nostalgia permeates through Manuel's emotional barriers. The sensation of the winter air meeting his skin after having long, long talks with Thomas is familiar to him, and he tries not to plangent from the bittersweetness and rosiness that surrounds the olden, golden days. It reminds him of the days when Benedikt and himself first dated, and even though they had known each other for years, were ridiculously shy with each other at first, refusing to even hold hands. It wasn't until he engaged in those long, heartfelt talks with Benedikt that he truly knew he loved the stupid boy...

With a clear, determined mind, Manuel focuses only on one thought: _Be it over head or over heels, I am in love with that boy, and I will tell him._

He starts walking home, the noon sun high in the sky amidst pale grey clouds.

 


	6. vi

_And I find myself at home, home, no, never be scared,_  
_Home's where my family are, I'm home, no, never look back,_  
 _Hold on to what I have…_  
 _Not afraid to use the phone, 'cause I don't have to be alone,_  
 _No, I'll never be scared, and oh, so I need to get home._  
-Ella Eyre, Home

 

It feels almost surrealistic, walking up the driveway to the house that he has called home for so long, walking up the driveway to the house with Benedikt in the late hours of the night after work. It's high noon, and a weekday - on a normal occasion, he should be at the office, muddling over paperwork and rogue clients. The boss, already acquainted with Benedikt and Manuel's rock-solid determination and willingness to work, didn't even ask any questions - even though they called separately. Benedikt had texted him on the way back.

 

BENEDIKT

I need to talk to you.

MANUEL

Okay. I'm coming over from Thomas.

BENEDIKT

Apple cider? This early?

MANUEL

Well, it's better than hard liquor at the bar.

BENEDIKT

That's true. When are you coming home?

MANUEL

I...as soon as I can, okay?

BENEDIKT

Okay. I love you.

MANUEL

I love you too.

 

The key fits smoothly in the door, and it takes a little heave to push the door open. Stepping inside and closing it as softly as possible, his words are shy, small.

"Benedikt?"

There's no reply.

Louder, this time.

"Benedikt?"

"Yeah? I'm...upstairs. In...our room. Are you coming up?"

He said our, Manuel thinks. _Our._

"Yeah, 'kay, I'm coming."

Untying the laces on his shoes seems to drag on, even with the Zeigeist poking him to hurry up.

"Wait, let me undo my shoes."

"OK, Manu."

 _Manu_. A pet name.

Setting the shoes, dirtied by a patch of mud he'd unsuccessfully leaped over on the way back from Thomas', down on the carpet, Manuel takes a single deep breath. It feels unnatural, chaotic - even in the dead silence of his house. Why does a deep breath feel so stressful?

 _No._ Manuel's mind races.

_This cannot be happening._

I can't be nervous about this, of all things. No, no, no! He's my boyfriend! Why am I nervous about this? He's just my boyfriend! We'll talk and kiss and make up! It'll be okay!

"Manu, where are you?"

"Sorry, sorry, coming."

Swallowing quickly, blinking twice in a row to confirm he isn't hallucinating, he starts climbing the stairs. As he gets higher, his head feels lighter, lighter, like wispy clouds in the late afternoon. Adrenalin lives and breathes in his veins. Any hope for serenity seems to be pyrophoric, his wishes disintegrating into thin air.

When he reaches the top, their bedroom door is open, and walking down the hallway, he sucks a breath in, as if half-drowning in the anxiety.

"B-Benni. Benni. Hi. What...what did you need to talk to me about?"

Benedikt, casually reading a new issue of Vogue Germany, looks up to see a stuttering, red-faced Manuel, fidgeting with his hands and biting his lip.

"Manuel, honey, what's wrong?"

"I-I don't know, I don't know, I'm just - just nervous?"

Benedikt's eyebrows knit together, and hesitantly, he reaches out a hand and beckons for Manuel to come over.

"Come sit over here, darling, and tell me what's wrong. What are you nervous about?"

Manuel bites his lip harder, and for a second, Benedikt's afraid he'll draw blood. Setting the issue of Vogue down, he gets up himself and walks the blond over to the red bedspread and motions for him to sit down.

"Benni, I-I-I don't know what I'm nervous about."

"That doesn't make any sense. How can you be nervous about something and not know what it is? What's wrong, Manuel? You're scaring me."

"I-I want to know what you wanted to talk about."

"It's nothing."

"It must be something, Benni. Please, please, tell me. I-I-I'm obligated to care, and obligated to try to know, because I love you, and I want to know what you wanted to talk to me about."

"Manuel, I just wanted to talk about us?"

"About how I'm a terrible boyfriend? How I-I can't even understand that my boyfriend will get ticked off when I blow him off? How I'm not-

"Manu, I'm not ticked off."

"We slept in separate beds for the first time in months! Benni-

"And so what? We had a bad night. Alright. It's okay."

"It's not okay! You were jealous, and it was all my fault!"

"Manuel-

"I'm terrible to you. Terrible! You love me a lot more than-

Benedikt freezes, and his mouth goes dry.

"Than what?"

Manuel's voice shrinks.

"Than I love you."

Benedikt's silence gnaws at Manuel, eating at his conscience, eating at his morals. Why did he say that? He loved Benedikt! He loved Benedikt so much he'd give up anything for Benedikt!

"Is that true, Manuel? That you don't love me?"

"No! I love you, Benni-

"But you don't love me enough that you would do anything for me."

"Of course I would do anything for you."

"Then why don't you show me? Why don't you actually show me that you love me, and it's not just some mask you put on?"

"Do you not see that I love you?"

"Well, it's not like you've put much effort into relationship. All our lives, it's always been me with you, not you with me. Not Manuel with Benedikt. It was always you. You, you, you. Is that all you can think about right now? I'm just some kind of trophy for you to carry around?!"

"Benedikt, no. No. Don't do this to me. Benni, please. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry, for not always being the perfect boyfriend. I promise-

"Promise. An empty, stupid, word, isn't it? Because you know that we're just going to end up with you by yourself in this perfect, circular spotlight, and me sitting there in the audience, watching you be happy, watching you live out your dream. But why can't I have some of that, too? Why can't you love me to the point where you understand that I want something out of you and me too?"

"Benni, we work stupid office jobs for twelve hours. Where are we going to go?"

"I don't know! But certainly nowhere, if you keep up with this."

"Keep up with what?"

"Have you been listening to anything I've just said?"

"Yes, Benni, please-please don't do this to me. OK? I've never cheated on you, or done anything wrong to you. Sure. Ambition gets to my head sometimes. Sometimes I want more than I can have. But please, please, don't take away the one thing that means the most to me."

"A lie. A huge, fat, fucking lie. Like I'm the most important thing to you? Yeah, right. I bet Bastian's actually it. I bet you're sleeping with him on the side. I bet after you break up with me, you're just going to run to him, and all will be well. Isn't that how it goes? Isn't it, Manuel? You and Bastian, this perfect little blond couple who does everything together- "Stop. Please, stop."

"Why, can't handle the truth, you asshole?"

"Benedikt. Please, please, please don't do this to me! Why are you-why are you doing this to me, now? What did I do? Tell me. I'll fix it. Benedikt-

"I don't think I can trust you anymore. You don't even love me."

"Now that's just unreasonable-

"You want to go to unreasonable? Fine, we'll go to unreasonable. You want to tell me where you went Saturday night, two weeks ago? Without telling me?"

"Really? Explain the cologne on your sweatshirt. It clearly wasn't yours, and clearly wasn't mine."

"I...Benedikt. Please, no. Okay? I was in a store. Abercrombie & Fitch. They have really strong cologne."

"The point is, Manuel, I can't do this anymore."

"You can't do what anymore?"

"This. You, and me. More like, you, with me as a side. As an extra. Not as a partner, but an extra. Just this trophy for you to hold up, and tell everyone you have this boyfriend."

"Benedikt-

"Don't you 'Benedikt' me. I can't go on with this, Manuel. I...we...we need to take a break."

"Benedikt! No! Please, please! I love you! Believe me! Why won't you believe me?"

Benedikt's breath hitches, and choking on air, he spits the words out.

"Because I really don't think I love you anymore."

And with that, Benedikt gets up, and leaving Manuel prey to the fear and the silence, walks out of the room. Distantly, Manuel can hear Benedikt's footsteps as he descends the stairs, and the jingle of keys. The muffled shout of, "I'll come get my stuff on Sunday; see you at work," comes promptly after, and then the worst of them all - the door.

The door closes with a squeak and a thud.

A thud.

Finite.

End.

Over.

The thud meant that it was all over.

It was all over.

It was all over.

It was actually all over.

How could it be over?

No, no, no, it was not over! It was not over! How could it be over?

He hadn't cheated on Benedikt!

Benedikt was his heart, his love, his home!

Benedikt was his home!

Benedikt was his family, his only family any close to him!

Benedikt - he loved Benedikt!

He'd never wanted to be selfish!

When had he been selfish?

What had he said?

What had he done?

This wasn't fair!

How could Benedikt just leave?

How could Benedikt just end it?

This wasn't right!

But this was the end.

It was all over.

In a span of ten minutes, it was all over.

All over.

The truth dropped like an axe over his head, and Manuel gasps for air, the shock getting to him.

They had been together for - for as long as Manuel can remember.

And just like that - just like that - it was all over.

It was all over.

Perhaps - perhaps - no.

Benedikt was his one, and his only.

There was no other special someone.

There couldn't be.

Sinking from the bed to the floor, the tears are fast, furious. His fists hit the ground, numb to the sensation of pain.

Benedikt. Benedikt.

He had left!

It was over!

They were no longer together!

He was - he had - he had - he no longer had - he no longer had a boyfriend.

He was free.

No.

Not free.

He was caged.

Benedikt had caged him.

In guilt, and remorse, and fear, and doubt, and brutal, brutal anger!

He was alone, again.

He had failed Thomas.

He had failed Benedikt.

He had failed everybody.

Except for himself.

Perhaps he had failed himself too.

Benedikt was supposed to be end-game.

Benedikt was supposed to be the one who took Neuer - or he was supposed to take Höwedes.

A break.

They were going to take a break.

So, when would the break end?

Would it ever end?

Would he ever have somewhere to call home - forever? Somewhere where he would be loved, and loved, and loved some more? Somewhere he would love, and love, and love some more back? Forever?

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

Blinking through the tears, Manuel pulls out his phone. Closing out the window with Benedikt's texts, he opens a browser: _Airfare pricing to London, and When to Travel._

Perhaps he had to live the gypsy life for a while.

Swallowing nervously, he tries to clear his mind: maybe this is for the better.

Maybe, he thinks, I will understand one day why this all happened. Maybe one day, I will find someone who cares for me, someone I can come back to, and someone I will love so much that they will become my permanent home. Smiling slightly under the anxiety and the fear and the cascading tears, he tries to feel optimistic about what lies ahead. One thing he knows for sure:

He will never forget what he and Benedikt built here - this wonderful home, this beautiful love - in München, together, and what they became.

 

* * *

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Take, take me home//To the place I know//Take, take me home..._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope that you enjoyed it. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome (even grammatical things).  
> To Sarah: Happy Birthday, love. To many more :)  
> To Max: Thank you, once again, for helping out putting this together.
> 
> If you're wondering about the ending and Hometown Glory (if you've read it; if not, the stupid thing's [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2441579) if you do want to try it out), I guess I'm just going to leave it up to you all to decide whether they're connected or not.  
> Once more, thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading.


End file.
